Read Too Sinful to Deny Online

Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

Too Sinful to Deny (6 page)

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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“Mr. Forrester is our local magistrate,” said the porcelain doll, peering up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
“He serves several towns in the area,” added the witch, looking very much as though she’d like to stab her fawning companion with her parasol. “He’s not just ours.”
Mr. Forrester appeared charmingly uncomfortable at the interplay beside him. “I live in Christchurch. I try to visit Bournemouth at least once or twice a month to see if my services are required.”
The ghost was once again doing everything but handstands before her face, but Susan’s mind was busy processing this new information.
One couldn’t ask for a more upstanding citizen than a magistrate. And
she
couldn’t ask for a better acquaintance than one with a horse. It was now more imperative than ever that Mr. Forrester think only the best of her. Although he didn’t know it yet, he was her ticket to the nearest posting-house the moment her allowance arrived.
“I understand.” Susan gave him her most gracious
ton
smile. “Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll find my way back home.”
He cocked his head, then turned away from the other ladies and proffered his arm. “Tell you what, Miss Stanton. If two heads are better than one, what do you say we give it a go together? If we can’t find our way to Moonseed Manor, I’m sure I for one will at least have had the pleasure of enjoyable company.”
If the porcelain doll’s expression was any indication of her emotional state, her beautiful face was about to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.
“Oh, bother,” she pouted. “She can find it. It’s not that hard.”
The witch gestured toward the door with the handle of her parasol. “Behind the big pile of driftwood a dozen yards from the shop, there’s a footpath leading up the cliff. It’s flat and winding, so it often takes the better part of an hour, but it’ll get you there.”
Mr. Forrester beamed. “There you have it. Aren’t these ladies too helpful?”
“Indeed,” Susan said.
“Perhaps we will meet again, Miss Stanton?”
“Why, certainly. Next time you’re in town, you’ll know how to find me.”
Next time you’re in town, you can spirit me away from this madhouse.
“Thank you.” He bowed. “I look forward to sharing your company for an hour or two.”
Count on it. I promise to chatter your ear off all the way to the posting-house.
“It’s a bargain.” Susan curtsied to him and wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at the other two ladies. “Lovely to meet you. I’ll come for a fitting another day. Au revoir.”
She grinned to herself as she stepped out the door. Those two would rather fillet her in her sleep than sew her a new trousseau, regardless of the price. But at least now they knew Miss Susan Stanton was not as easily cowed as the limpid country misses they normally crushed beneath their heels. Miss Susan Stanton was never cowed at all.
The rough-hewn ghost materialized before her face.
Susan squeaked in surprise.
His bearded jaw dropped open, revealing half a collection of crooked yellow teeth. “You
can
see me.”
She shot a nervous glance along the beach. The door to the shop had closed behind her and the scarecrow was long gone. Nonetheless . . .
“Go away,” she hissed.
“You can
hear
me?” he sputtered. “Why weren’t you paying any attention to me inside?”
“I was busy.” She stepped around him and made for the landmark pile of driftwood. “Still am. Do leave me alone.”
Please don’t let him follow me. Please don’t let him follow me.
He followed. “I’ll go if you promise to do something for me.”
“ No.”
A-ha! There was the pathway leading to the top. Susan grabbed the front of her skirt and began the tramp up the footpath.
“I just need you to relay a message,” the ghost insisted, hovering over nothingness at her side. “How hard can that be?”
She sighed. “What’s the message?”
“That I’m dead.”
Susan walked faster. “Out of the question.”
“That’s it, I swear.” He darted forward and floated a consistent two feet before her, flickering beneath the overcast sky. “Give my family news of my death and I’ll leave you alone forever.”
What rot.
“First of all, what gives me any reason to believe I can trust the word of a ghost? Secondly, are you
mad?
What am I meant to do, walk around town saying, ‘Oh, I ran into this dead chap the other day—’”
“Grey’s my surname, but most call me—”
“All right, ‘When I bumped into
Mister
Grey this morning, he asked me to let you know that he’s
dead
. . .’”
He glared at her. “At least tell my sister.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“It’s the least you can do.”
“It’s not my business at all!” Susan ducked her head and strode faster, keeping her gaze locked on her boots rather than the shimmering ghost before her. “I didn’t ask to start seeing dead people.”
“I didn’t ask to die.”
“I’m truly sorry for your loss.” She wavered for a moment, then sped up. “Did you not see the debacle that took place in that horrid dress shop merely because my encounter with you gave me such a start? Imagine what those two vipers would say if they knew I was speaking to you now.”
“That’s exactly who—”
“Forget it!” Susan swiped an arm through his misty form, expecting her angry gesture to do little more than annoy the persistent spirit.
Instead, he vanished.
She was so startled, she stopped in her tracks. What the dickens had just happened? Had she somehow killed a ghost? Dare she hope he was gone for good?
“What the devil are you about now, woman?” came a familiar voice below her feet.
Susan’s gaze snapped down along the cliff ’s edge.
Mr. Bothwick. Delightful.
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.” His smooth voice came closer. “Looked rather like talking to yourself and throwing punches at the wind.”
Susan ground her teeth. This sort of reaction was precisely why she would not be bringing Bournemouth inhabitants any ghostly messages from the grave. The only thing worse than being ignored was being mocked. Although she supposed fleeing his house at a dead run hadn’t precisely been putting her best foot forward, as far as impressions went. Not that she cared about his opinion. Much.
“Just exercising,” she said, turning around to wait for his inevitable reappearance on the serpentine path. “Latest London craze. You wouldn’t understand.”
Mr. Bothwick rounded another winding corner and appeared on the trail before her. He had bathed and groomed since the last time she saw him, and the change was breathtaking. He could have mingled in any ballroom to devastating effect. Out in the open air, however, with the wild ocean at his back . . . this was his element.
No tailor could hide the muscular lines of a body used to the out-of-doors (why would one try?) and the snowy whiteness of his perfectly creased cravat only served to accentuate the unfashionable bronze of his skin. A look, Susan admitted privately, that Mr. Bothwick wore very, very well. Particularly with the slight quirk to his lips that she’d come to recognize meant he was on the verge of saying something shocking.
“As it happens,” he said with a slight incline to his head, “there’s nothing I love more than . . . exercising . . . with a beautiful woman.”
Susan reminded herself to be offended, not intrigued. Or at least feign as much. And stop ogling the fine fit of his breeches and perfect cut of his cheekbones above the creases of his cravat.
“Do you know how insufferable you are, Mr. Bothwick?”
He smiled. “I cultivate it. Shall I carry you up the cliff ?”
“You shall not.” Although, turned out in his present condition, the idea held a sinful allure. He looked so dashing, with the wind ruffling his chestnut hair and every other inch of him so perfectly put together. He was a gentleman on the outside, and on the inside . . . something darker. A mystery. A mirage. An enemy.
He studied her as if reading her thoughts. “Shall we ‘exercise’ together, then?”
Susan gasped indignantly. Well, somewhat indignantly. The gasping might have detracted a bit from the indignation and made her sound more . . . tempted. Knowing he was absolutely wrong for her just made him all the more intriguing.
She raised her chin and tried to appear aloof. “We most certainly shall not.”
“More’s the pity.”
He prowled closer. Bits of grass and dirt broke free with each step and tumbled to the ground below. Suddenly they were toe to toe on the sandy path. He didn’t move. Neither did she. She couldn’t. His fresh-shaven cheeks looked sharp, dangerous, yet touchably soft. He wore no perfume. His recently bathed skin smelled of sea salt and citrus. Ambrosial. He was too close. Much too close. He lifted her chin with the curve of a bare knuckle and gazed into her eyes.
“Anybody ever tell you it’s dangerous to be out on the cliffs alone?”
She jerked her chin out of his grasp, ignoring the rippling shiver his touch had caused. Still caused. She should turn around, right now, and walk away. She should definitely not encourage him by responding. Or leaning closer. Or allowing the huskiness in her voice to give hint to her thoughts. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’re the sort of man who makes it dangerous to be
anywhere
alone.”
“Ahh. So you do get my meaning.” His smile returned, this time giving his eyes a predatory glint. “Not as innocent as I imagined.”
“A caryatid would get your meaning.” Susan swayed, then steadied herself with a palm to his arm. Her over-tight stays must be making her breathless. It certainly had nothing to do with the way he didn’t bother to hide the blatant interest darkening his gaze. Or the way her pulse quickened at every touch. “I plan to remain innocent in the way you mean until the day I wed. So if you don’t mind, please step aside and allow a lady to pass.”
He tilted his head and considered her. “Would that be the gentlemanly thing to do?”
Yes. And that’s what she desired. A gentleman. A rich, titled,
London
gentleman. Period.
“Of course.”
“Then that’s the first fallacy in your logic. You assume I’m a gentleman, when I am not. In fact, the only time I’m ever gentle is when I—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Susan interrupted, desperate to cut him off lest she somehow be compromised by mere words alone. A proper young lady should have no interest in hearing any details regarding the style of his lovemaking. Yet her heartbeat tripled its speed.
“Discussion is pointless,” the shameless reprobate agreed softly, “when actions speak so much more eloquently.”
With that, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Chapter 5
Miss Stanton’s fist connected with Evan’s ribs.
Several stunned seconds passed before it occurred to him to let go of her face. The moment he regained his senses—which had tumbled from his head after suffering his first-ever setback by a woman—he jerked his hands away as if her pores exuded acid.
She had the audacity to look wounded.
“You hit me,” he pointed out.
Miss Stanton crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “You
kissed
me.”
“A mistake I shall strive not to make again, I assure you.”
“Good,” she snapped. But a slight wrinkle creased her brow, as if she weren’t completely certain whether she were winning the argument or losing.
He, on the other hand, had no such uncertainty. If two people sharing as many sparks as they did were not occupied in the pleasurable task of lovemaking or the preparation thereof, they were both losing.
Evan hated to lose.
However, his primary mission—make that his sole mission—was to uncover Timothy’s killer, not waste time dallying with fast-fisted blondes. Particularly one who now resided in the one house in Bournemouth he frequented nearly as often as his own. If she
would’ve
succumbed to temptation . . . Christ. The very thought of seeing the same lover’s face on a daily basis set his skin to itching.
He would, of course, accompany the jasmine-scented beauty for the duration of the walk to Moonseed Manor, as her arse had demolished the only other viable route to the top. As she was still staring at him expectantly, one pale eyebrow arched higher than the other, he might as well give her what she wished and get this over with as fast as possible.
With an ungentlemanly sigh, he proffered his arm.
With an equally unladylike . . . huff? . . . she spun around without taking it and stalked up the trail with enough unnecessary stomping that Evan began to fear she was about to ruin this path, too.
“What is it you
want?
” he heard himself ask, as he hastened to her side while the walkway still existed. This was the main reason port wenches were better than Society women—he never had to ask what they wanted. The answer was always: him.
“I want you,” the blond virago said without bothering to slow her steps, “to go away.”
And right there was the second reason.
“Just to clear things up,” he informed the irritatingly attractive sway of Miss Stanton’s backside, “I am on my way to visit Ollie, not you.”
Her step faltered, but she didn’t respond.
Did she fancy his attentions or not? Then again, her wishes didn’t signify. He had one goal, and one goal only. Avenge Timothy’s murder. And revenge was best handled when not wasting time worrying over the illogic of the female mind.
Evan picked up his pace. Not only were his legs longer than Miss Stanton’s, his feet knew this and every trail in Bournemouth by rote. Within the space of a heartbeat he was at her side, and within another, already beyond. He was almost to the next curve in the path when she gritted out, “
Wait.
”
He considered continuing on as if he hadn’t heard her. After all, he was nine or ten feet ahead. Perhaps he was deaf in one ear. She wouldn’t know. Yet some devil inside him made him slow. Or perhaps something in her voice beckoned him as irresistibly as a siren’s.
Despite such warning bells, he turned to face her. “What now, woman?”
“Aren’t you at least going to stay behind me?”
What did she expect of him? And why did she think he would grant it? Merely because
she
was a lady?
Her cheeks held a hint of pink, whether from pique or embarrassment, he didn’t know. He had no idea why his body refused to obey his brain’s directive to quit her presence for good. She seemed to be fighting a similar internal battle. He would solve the problem for both of them by making it easier for her to decide he was the last man a respectable young lady should be spending time with. He was no gentleman. Had never been. And had no desire to be.
“We’re not promenading a ballroom,” he reminded her. “I am not your suitor.”
“Thank God for both of those facts,” she muttered. He was
certain
that’s what she’d just said. But then she met his eyes, her own blue and wide behind her spectacles, and gazed at him as if she’d said nothing. “What if I should fall?”
Evan stared at her. Was she expecting to fall? Did the woman plan such things? And when had he been enlisted as her personal net? The man so far below her lofty status that his only usefulness was that of impromptu carriage? His flesh steamed. He had left his past behind specifically to avoid class conflicts with the
ton.
This was Bournemouth, for the love of whiskey. He wouldn’t let a comely little debutante play the superior.
“In that case,” he replied icily, “you will have the satisfaction of knowing it was your own damn fault, given that I am too far ahead to give you a proper push.”
Surprisingly, the London debutante did not gasp at his effrontery in highly dramatized outrage. In fact, if it weren’t simply a trick of the sun’s glare upon her spectacles, Miss Stanton’s initial reaction had been to . . . roll her eyes?
“Walk with me,” she gritted out in a voice even surlier than his own. “. . . Please.”
He did. Primarily in surprise. She had not wanted to say please. He had not expected to hear it.
He did not offer his arm this time. He didn’t have to. She slipped a gloved hand into the narrow gap between his elbow and his greatcoat and stared straight ahead as if wishing she were anywhere in the world but at his side. At this point, the feeling was mutual.
At least he wasn’t expected to engage in small talk.
As they made their way up the cliff in silence, Evan turned his thoughts from his present companion to his late brother. How he missed Timothy. He’d had such a logical mind and strong sense of justice. Had their situations been reversed, Timothy would’ve solved Evan’s murder with ease, Evan was certain. Timothy loved to use his brain, did so at every opportunity. To the exclusion of all else.
So why was he dead? Was it possible he
had
been doing something as trivial as adding sums when a miscreant chanced upon him? Evan let out a sigh. It was not only possible, but highly probable. There was no other explanation. How the devil was he going to track down a killer whose only complaint against his victim had been the happenstance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
The delicate fingers curving around his arm dug into his skin.
“What?” Miss Stanton’s voice was interested. Too interested. He could
feel
her gaze boring into his skull.
“What’s what?” he mumbled absently, trying to keep his mind focused on unraveling what few clues he had. He would show his brother that the elder Bothwick had as much ability to use his brain as his balls. Vengeance would be swift.
Provided he not lose time with jasmine-scented blond distractions.
“You sighed.”
That warranted a complete set of nails puncturing his arm through three layers of fabric?
“I did not.”
“You did,” she insisted, staring at him as if the intensity of her blue eyes could force him to voice his darkest thoughts aloud.
“So I did,” Evan agreed, so as to derail the current pattern before the conversation degenerated into the black tar of did-not, did-too as so many of his and Timothy’s childhood arguments had gone. “If you must know, my sigh was because I suffer from horrible asthma. My physician says I should stop carrying women about, and the next time you fall . . . I should let you hit the ground.”
As before, she failed to gasp in outrage. Her eyes were probing, not wounded. And her muttered response sounded almost like . . . “Bollocks.”
“What was that?” he inquired politely. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I
said,
” she began, “I doubt you’d notice if I fell to my death. Something else is on your mind. What is it? The corpse you mislaid?”
Here he’d thought she’d been about to dispute his alleged lung condition.
He gave those alarmingly intelligent eyes his most careless smile and marched forward in renewed silence. He’d never have mentioned the missing-body situation had she—and the loss of his brother—not caught him utterly off guard. He was on guard now, however. He’d be watching his back around this little Londonite with big eyes, a dangerously round arse, and a grip like a deckhand. Matter of fact, he’d be keeping his eye on everyone.
Someone in town was a killer. And Evan would have revenge.
For best results, however, he would have to keep up appearances of his usual devil-may-care attitude and puss-on-the-prowl activities. In fact . . .
He slid Miss Stanton a sideways glance.
She noticed.
He couldn’t prevent a slow, satisfied smile from curving his lips.
She noticed that, too.
“W-what?” she stammered, loosening her grip on his arm and edging away as much as the cliff ’s edge would allow.
Evan hid his smile and propelled them farther up the narrow path.
With no imagination at all, the entire town could be made to believe she was his newest conquest. Given the roguishness of his reputation and his well-documented lust for fresh blood, he probably would never have to be within shouting distance of the inquisitive blonde for the rumor to spread like pox at sea. The villain would believe Evan too wrapped up in a new skirt to be playing detective . . . and executioner. Then Evan would strike.
Blood for blood. Death for death.
Evan let himself into Ollie’s library with the sneaking suspicion that Miss Stanton’s exaggerated flight from his side upon entering the premises was more ruse than reality, and that she lurked nearby in the shadows. He waited a brief moment on the other side of the door before giving it a sudden wrench open and launching himself into the hallway.
He was alone.
The prickles on the back of his neck continued to plague him. He narrowed his eyes at the web of passageways trickling outward like so many rivulets of blood. He had no reason to believe she’d
meant
to spy on them earlier, particularly given the ghost-white terror in her expression when he’d flown into the hall, but something about the way she’d—
“Bothwick,” came Ollie’s coarse voice from across the room. “Get in or stay out.”
With misgivings, Evan returned inside. He locked the library door before crossing to the half-circle of black leather chairs facing the fire, and threw himself into the one farthest from Ollie so he could keep an eye on any subtle changes in expression.
“I haven’t come to kill you after all,” Evan offered by way of greeting.
“Thank God, or I’d have to say you’re not worth ship room anymore.” Ollie glanced up from his ledgers. “If you fancy a brandy, get it yourself.”
“I need your help. He’s gone.”
“Who? Timothy?” Ollie frowned, the deep lines that shadowed his face making his ugly face even uglier. “Didn’t you say he was dead?”
Evan’s stomach clenched at the memory. “The hole in his head gave that impression.”
“Then how—”
“I obviously don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“How the bloody hell would
I
know?” The surprise in Ollie’s eyes was real. “Your brother was the least unsavory shipmate I’ve ever had. The only person I can imagine putting a bullet between his eyes is Timothy himself out of pure boredom.”
“Suggest it again and I’ll put a bullet between yours.”
Ollie glanced away, by all appearances suddenly fascinated by the crackling of the fire.
That was as close to an apology as the brute had ever given, so Evan forced himself to stay on course. He needed answers. Ollie hadn’t been present. But other hands
had
been on board. He just had to find them.
“Red wasn’t at the Shark’s Tooth this morning,” he said aloud.
“Well, hallelujah.” Ollie lowered his gaze to his ledger and ran a finger down one of the columns. “First time that sorry bastard hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor since his mouth let go of his mama’s pap.”
“Don’t you find that strange?” Evan insisted, leaning forward in his chair. Perhaps Red hadn’t been in the tavern because Red had left town. Perhaps the sotted smuggler had turned on Timothy and fled Bournemouth forever.
“Red’s a big enough imbecile to put a bullet in one of his own shipmates, but if you’re suggesting he also managed to hush up the crew and escape by himself with the spoils, boat and all”—Ollie scratched at his beard—“I’m going to be a bit skeptical.”
Hmmm. A valid point.
“Actually, the ship turned back up.” Evan noted the surprise in Ollie’s eyes at this bombshell. “But the last log page didn’t. Who do you think might have taken it?”
Ollie blanched behind the midnight blackness of his beard. “A madman, that’s who. Even Red’s not that stupid. Taking a single word from any of the captain’s log books is tantamount to signing a contract givin’ away your balls.” His big shoulders twitched in an involuntary shudder. “And before you ask, absolutely not. Timothy’s sucket-fed. He would never have come within paw’s reach of that book, much less ripped out an entire page.” Lines creased his forehead. “Makes me wonder if I have any business hauling anchor come Friday. Ship could be cursed.”
BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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